


Dark Waters

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Heavy Angst, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: "Paul recalled the way Linda laughed when he kissed her that day. A light sound, worth composing a song about. Sadly, Paul had no melodies hidden in his sleeve. Or his heart."-- the reality of John's death sinks in, and Paul is not doing well
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Dark Waters

**Author's Note:**

> not me not doing well and coping with a writing a sad fic, sorry for spam, but I needed to busy my brain, I guess

_It was raining. It had been always raining lately. Tiny drops of water whipping the ground, grass, everything and everybody. It couldn't be viewed as nature's gift anymore, for the soil had already soaked, and masses of water washed over flowers and trees. People and their fancy settees. The mud covered it all, hid all the beauty and suffocated all hope. And it still hadn't reached the end._

Paul's eyes cracked open, and he groaned as his body woke up, a beat late after his mind. He didn't remember falling asleep, a side effect of consuming alcohol like water. Yeah, here she was, a bottle of scotch snuggled closely in his fist. "... the fire of my loins," he chuckled, noticing the dryness of his lips and throat. It didn't matter.

Ages ago, he thought John was the only fire he needed. And not just fire, mind you, the air, water...everything essential. He assumed he played the same role to John. Learnt not to be so naive.

Speaking of John. Paul had dreamed of him again. No matter how much he drank, the bastard still sneaked his way into Paul's head. At least he didn't see him, he wasn't even sure if he could recognise him. After all, he had troubles doing that even when they met up after the breakup. Maybe John experienced it, too. Paul wanted to ask so many times, something he would have done without any further pondering, had they been 24 again. 

Everything about John spoke a foreign language, Paul didn't understand and wasn't allowed to learn. The way his bones stuck from his skin, looking fragile and scary at the same time. The shadows of his eyes. Even those sodded glasses. Paul wasn't there when John decided to switch his round ones. Couldn't witness the embarrassment whenever it was crucial to use them like, you know, glasses and not a fashion accessory. He had longed for it to be different.

No, he didn't see John's figure, but his presence breathed from every drop of water. It made sense. John adored water, inherited that after Julia and maybe even Alf. A vibrant and cruel ocean. So many shades, waves, space, strength...and, like the ocean itself, John carried darkness under all the layers. 

Paul stifled a wretched sob, his eyes remaining dry and unfocused. His Johnny. A string of memories flashed before his eyes -- seeing John for the first time; hugging him; their bodies pressed next to each other in Hamburg, something grand blossoming between them; John's rough fingers drawing shapes on his back; the tiny smile meant just for him, same that he received just a few months ago...it was all gone. 

He heard Linda rattling in the kitchen, winced at the thought of what was about to come. Not because he was a coward, but because lovely Linda didn't deserve any of that. The piece of paper hidden inside his inner pocket burned his skin, every single letter stinging his heart. Yet, his finger didn't itch to get rid of it. 

It was noon now and Paul trod to Martha's grave. In some warped sense, her death relieved him. He wished for her to guide him. 

The sun shone bright, as he sat next to the stone, his fingers caressing the grass. He wondered if they had fresh air and sun rays over there. George once told him everybody could shape the reality of it. Everybody. For the first time in years, Paul believed George's words. 

The place called him. He recognised it as his bed, wild poppies on left, a sunflower on right, beautiful. Paul recalled the way Linda laughed when he kissed her that day. A light sound, worth composing a song about. Sadly, Paul had no melodies hidden in his sleeve. Or his heart.

The tiny pill mocked him as he balanced it on the palm of his hand. "Such a little thing," Paul wondered, his heart beating faster. He couldn't wait for it to rest.

The air tasted sweet, and Paul breathed it in, saying his goodbyes. Then swallowed the pill.

Everything slowed down, he could feel blood pouring from his nose and mouth, expressed his surprise. It reminded him of the rain from his dreams. Paul's eyes focused on the sun, watched it sparkle till darkness engulfed everything.

His body felt light, contrary to his eyelids. A faint smell of roses tickled Paul's nose. 

"I can't believe you did that. I would wait for you, you idiot."

Paul would recognise the nasal voice everywhere. John offered him a hand, helping him to stand up, before wiping away the tears finally pouring down Paul's cheeks. Martha's barking in the distance accompanied the sound of his cries. 

It was his John. Shy and exuberant, auburn hair messily framing the chiseled face. They were hugging, tears flowing from their eyes, as neither of them understood. Then Paul brought his lips to John's thin ones. 

_It happened_. 


End file.
